


Reg's Reflections

by LadyKeane



Series: Bertie's Blog [7]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, COVID-19, Competent Bertram "Bertie" Wooster, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Prompt Fic, Slice of Life, cute kitties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22520020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKeane/pseuds/LadyKeane
Summary: One-shot fic prompts for the Bertie's Blog-verse, which I have decided to pen from Jeeves' POV.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Series: Bertie's Blog [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/873774
Comments: 16
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way if you want to hit me up with more prompts for this series, please feel free to do so (probs best to got to [my tumblr](http://ladykeane.tumblr.com/ask)).

My fiance, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, has proven to be a constant source of inspiration. There has been many a grey weekday morning that I have dreaded the prospect of leaving our bed, to face the bustle of London and the onerous task of placating my legal clients, who can often be disagreeable and demanding. Bertram blesses me with his bright blue gaze and sweet rosy smile, and his natural buoyancy quickly uplifts me. I am able to approach the day in a lighter mood, and with a strengthened resolve. This is one of the many ways in which he makes me into a better version of myself. Despite our occasional squabbles and his sometimes imperfect domestic habits, I am elevated and improved by the love we share. ****

He has inspired me again in the writing of this prose. His blog is a source of entertainment for many, and I am proud of his accomplishment. This composition may prove much less whimsical, and will certainly not be fit for public consumption. I confess I lack Bertram’s bravery to share my innermost thoughts with the digital multitudes. 

And I do feel justified in declaring Bertram to be a singularly courageous soul, despite the detractions of some of his peers. Not only because of the aid he provides to friends (and even strangers) in need, or his unswerving devotion to his beloved ‘Code of the Woosters’. Bertram is brave because he dares to be cheerful in a world that can be oppressively bleak.

This is precisely why I was so affected to come home one dark January day, to find him slumped on the carpet of our unlit sitting room, listening to an album of vintage novelty songs, and crying his poor dear eyes out.

Bertram always takes to the festivities around Christmas and New Years’ with an almost manic enthusiasm. This is unsurprising, but in the years we have celebrated the yuletide together, I have often detected a vague sort of wistfulness arise in him. Even this Christmas just past, which was exalted by his marriage proposal to me, saw him a tad doleful during quieter moments.

I have often suspected the reason for this anomaly in his character. I have never dared to interrogate him about it, lest I worsen the wound.  
However, seeing my songbird in such keen despair finally spurred me to address the matter.

I sat down beside him, my actions slow, so as not to startle him. He did not flinch as I carefully wrapped my arms about his wilted frame. He buried his wet face in my collar, and I stroked his back gently as he heaved with sobs. His misery flooded its way into me, and I burned with it. My hand found its way into his soft curls, cradling his precious head.

I listened to the music playing. A jazz band tootled away, over which a pleasant light baritone crooned:

_‘Everybody loves my baby_

_But my baby don’t love nobody but me_

_Yes, everybody wants my baby_

_but my baby don’t want nobody but me_

_that’s plain to see!…’_

It was not hard to discern that the voice belonged to Bertram’s late father.  
The song eventually came to an end with a blare of horns, and the vinyl crackled and fell silent.

Bertram rose, tearing away from my embrace. ‘Ah. Awfully sorry about that, Reg,’ he said shakily, and flicked on the light. His eyes were painfully red and puffy. His sorrow was not disguised by the hardy little smile he managed for me.

He began striding towards the kitchen, ostensibly to start dinner or put on the kettle. I could see him struggling to conjure his prized stiff upper lip. I was stung; I did not want my future husband to believe that he required such a mask in my presence.

‘Bertram… you have no need to apologise to me. It is alright to feel what you feel.’  
He stopped in the doorway, and slackened a little. ‘I suppose. It’s just… this time of year, you know. Makes it harder not to miss them.’

I arose to meet him, my hand caressing his shoulder once more. ‘Please allow me. Darjeeling, my angel?’

***

We agreed upon a dinner of take-away, and afterwards enjoyed a drowsy snuggle on the sofa. It grew late; Bertram went to change into his pajamas, and I began clearing up the sitting room, quite unhurried. 

The novelty jazz album still sat upon the turntable, and I reverently slid it back into its sleeve. The cover gave me pause, the bright blue gaze of the late Mr Wooster was unmistakable. I know the man had been a music teacher at Dulwich College in life, and an accomplished musician like his son. According to the accounts of his sister Mrs Travers, he had also the same sunny, kind-hearted temperament.

‘It was thirteen years, today, don’t you know. An icy road and a drunk driver. I’ve never even visited their graves, if you can believe it. Just couldn’t bring myself.’

He stood in the bedroom doorway, a look of glass on his face. ‘The last day I ever spent with them was New Years’. Got packed off back to Eton, after that. You know the last thing I ever said to my mother? “Don’t forget to send on my iPod.” Over the phone. I still kick myself for that.’  
We locked eyes. ‘One of the biggest regrets is that they’ll never get to meet _you,_ Reg…’

He began to crumble again, and I rushed to his arms. I imagined my love, a stricken adolescent boy, being delivered the news by a laconic house master. Being dragged home for a dual funeral, being shunted about by busy relatives lost in their own grief. That monstrous Mrs Gregson chiding him for his unmanly snivelling, and even the sympathetic Mrs Travers encouraging him to bear up and stay strong. How often had that boy ever had a chance to properly grieve for himself?

Framing the distraught, beautiful tear-strewn face between my hands, I pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.  
As a solicitor, I well know that advisory words seldom assist in mitigating such clean, sharp-edged mourning. I have often tasked my clients to report upon some of their greatest personal traumas: divorce, bereavement, the falling out of relationships. When lost in the midst of their pain, I cannot reach them with talk of practical solutions.  
All I could do now was hold my Bertram, and ride out the tempest with him.

At length his crying abated, and I was able to draw him into bed. I encased him in my arms and he buried himself in my chest. Gradually our pulses fell into rhythm, and Morpheus mercifully numbed us both.

When I awoke the next morning, I was met with a bright blue gaze, and a rosy, if slightly muted, sweet smile.  
‘What sort of day is it, Reg?’  
I checked the forecast on my phone. ‘Clear and sunny, with a projected top of 14 degrees, and a light breeze to the South-West.’  
‘I say, that’s jolly good weather for this time of year.’  
‘Positively clement, Bertram.’  
‘What do you say we traipse down to Dulwich Park today? Grab a spot of lunch?’

I examined him. That park had been the place of his childhood gambols, a place he had not visited since his parents had died.  
‘Do you feel up to it?’ I asked delicately. 

He huffed into the pillowcase. ‘Well… it’s been such a long time, and it really is a nice little spot, packed with joyful memories… I should love to show you the old oak that I always loved to climb. One time I dragged Angela up there too. She nearly screamed my ear off that it was too high, until I pointed out that you could just glimpse Tower Bridge from the highest branch. Then there’s the little copse by the West Lawn, where Father and I once had a run-in with a miniature grizzly hedgehog. Spunky little thing, he was…’

It stayed sunny for the entire day.


	2. Chapter 2

For the majority of my life, I have considered myself a fairly guarded and self-contained man. Coming from a large and boisterous family, with siblings that loudly vie for attention and prominence, I have instinctively adopted the role of careful observer. Learning to read human character, and applying that knowledge to best improve my own situation, has become a lifelong skill that has aided me in both my career and social standing. ****

By contrast, Bertram is naturally carefree and open, largely unconcerned by how his interactions with others affect his own situation. I theorise this may be due to his status as an only child and an orphan, who has had to seek out love and approval by pleasing his extended family and his peer group. The claustrophobic clamour of my own demonstrative family has driven me to be quite guarded.

Of course, that is not to say that Bertram entirely lacks guile. I have noted his novice study of the psychology of the individual (I am not too humble to say that my _modus operandi_ has been his primary inspiration), and he has slowly become more canny in his negotiations.  
A prime example of this occurred only last week.

I returned home from work. Instead of encountering the usual disarray of empty mugs, unfolded laundry, and errant clutter strewn about the place, the flat was impeccably tidy. The strains of my favourite Tchaikovsky concerto floated from the stereo system, interspersed with muted metallic clangs echoing out from the kitchen. The sound of my beloved singing to himself could also be discerned.

‘What ho, Reg. Dinner will be on in about five. Just got to finish the potatoes. I thought we could eat in the dining room tonight.’  
Curious, I peered into said space. The table was set for two, accented by a swathe of lit candles and a fresh bouquet of white peonies as a centrepiece. This sort of ceremony was usually reserved for birthdays and other such occasions. As I put away my work things, I pondered what Bertram’s motive could be. I prayed that he hadn’t broken anything irreplaceable. Or, even worse, invoked the wrath of one of his aunts, thus requiring my help to, as he is wont to say, ‘pull him from the soup.’

As I crossed back towards the dining room, I spied one piece of clutter which remained conspicuous on the coffee table: a pamphlet from Battersea Dogs and Cats Home. It reported on the unfortunate spike in abandoned animals that occurs after each Christmas, as well as the purported advantages of taking in a rescue animal as a family pet. 

Bertram met me at the table with two plates of juicy sirloin, and an attractive smile. He had donned his pale blue, fitted Cuban collar shirt, which displayed the graceful lines of his neck and collarbone most fetchingly. ‘There’s tiramisu for dessert, too. The one from Angelo’s!’

As we dined, I fought between savouring the exquisite trappings that Bertram had laid out, and the fizzle of exasperation at the imminent pitch that I was in for.  
  
Bertram has always been enamoured of cats, and I had long known that I would have to deal with his desire to adopt one as a pet. I am certainly not averse to the animals - in some cases they are charming companions, elegant and affectionate, and less intrusive to a household than a dog. However, they can also possess a changeable temperament, and the scratch-marks and fur they can leave on one’s furniture is, at least in my view, a major detriment. Not to mention the ghastly odour of their litter trays.

I decided to cut to the chase. ‘I could not help but notice the pamphlet from Battersea sitting on the coffee table.’  
He now simpered at me boldly. ‘Come on, Reg… you know how dearly I want one! I’ve already cleared it with Mr Manglehoffer. Anyway, he has those yappy shih tzus. Couldn’t you just imagine curling up on the sofa with a little ball of fur, purring sweetly away in your lap? We can get it some toys and a scratching post, and stick its litter tray in the second lavatory. I could even get one of those mini vacuum cleaners to deal with the fur.’  
Clearly, he’d anticipated all of my possible protests.

I pushed a mound of green beans about my plate, and huffed to myself. There are a number of inadvisable fancies that I have striven to cure my fiance of: garish fashion choices, toxic acquaintances, and not least of all a phase where he attempted to learn the banjo. But this, I fear, was more deep-seated.  
The poet Baudelaire had much to say about the comfort of feline companionship: _‘Viens, mon beau chat, sur mon coeur amoureux.’_ Likewise the prophet Mohammed, Catherine the Great, even the sublime Freddie Mercury. My Bertram counted among this group. His beautiful loving heart was eager to make a comfortable home for some lucky beast. While my fastidious habits still balked at the adjustments of taking on a pet, I knew deep down this was a battle I could not win. Especially considering that a softer part of me would be delighted by the little creature’s presence, despite any potential mess.

He interrupted my rumination. ‘I mean, since we’re well settled in to our flat now, and will soon don the spongebag trousers to exchange our vows… I figured it was about time, you know. Expand our little family and all.’  
While I knew the pleading look in his large blue eyes to be mostly a crafty design, it still had the effect of melting me utterly.

‘Well…’ I said slowly, ‘I insist that I be present at the selection of the animal. I should like to have input as to which one we choose, and the chance to assess its temperament prior to adoption.’  
‘Of course, old thing, I wouldn’t have it any other way! It’s going to be your cat, too.’  
‘Be that as it may, cleaning and feeding will fall entirely to you, my poet.’  
‘Right ho.’

One upshot was that he washed the dishes entirely by himself, and later allowed me to undress him and ravish him in all the ways that pleased me best - though I warrant this last perk was certainly a mutual one.

***

‘Oh Bertie, I’m ever so glad that you’ve come to rescue one of our little sweethearts!’ Ms Bassett, eyes shining, led us cheerfully through to the cattery. ‘You know, Roddy and I just found the perfect baby brother for Piglet, a dear little fox terrier cross named Snowy. Just like the doggie in “Tintin”!’  
A thoughtful mien passed across Bertram’s face.  
‘A doggie, eh?’  
‘No, Bertram.’  
‘Oh, alright.’

The cattery was a bright, clean space, with the cats kept individually in large perspex enclosures. I confess I was not unaffected by the rows of bright emerald eyes and twitching velvet ears that we beheld.  
‘Let me know if you would like to meet any of these precious angels, and you can go in and introduce yourselves,’ Ms Bassett informed us.  
‘I say, I like this one!’

Bertram had already been drawn to one inmate, who’d padded right up to the front of the enclosure to gaze up at him curiously. A small, delicate thing, with grey tabby markings on her mask, back and tail, and white underbelly and legs. As Bertram kneeled to greet her, she chirruped away in a light, dulcet voice.  
‘Puccini likes you, Bertie! She’s not usually so friendly with visitors.’  
‘Puccini, eh? We could call her “Poochy” for short, eh Reg?’  
‘Most amusing, Bertram.’

We entered her enclosure, and she wasted no time in winding herself about Bertram’s legs, still chirping at him. She was rewarded with a gentle scratch on the head, and she purred loudly. I could sense that this was love at first sight.  
‘Who’s a good Poochy, then? Do you behave yourself for Ms Maddie?’  
 _‘Mrowr.’_  
‘Jolly good.’

He plopped himself down, and spent the next hour playing with Puccini. He giggled as she batted at his outstretched wriggling fingers, stroked her plush fur as she gently headbutted his arm, and even let her lick his face with her sandy pink tongue. All the while he cooed at her, while she responded in kind with a lyrical stream of mews and tweets and squeaks.  
‘Little chatterbox, isn’t she?’  
‘Like attracts like, Bertram.’

It seemed inevitable - we would not need to see any other cats. After a while I approached Ms Bassett. ‘I believe we have made our selection.’  
‘More like Puccini has made hers,’ she remarked. ‘But I’m afraid that it’s not that simple. Puccini came from a house full of cats, you see, and doesn’t do well on her own. The policy for adopting her is that she must have another kitty housemate.’

My heart dropped to my stomach. One cat was enough of a compromise, but two cats could be potential bedlam. My mind roved to images of troublesome cartoon siamese, broken ceramics, and overwhelmed house guests.

But then my gaze settled on Bertam cradling the purring Puccini in his arms, a look of pure bliss cast across his lovely face. A heavy sigh escaped me.  
‘Bertram, we must adopt a second cat in order to take Puccini home. Shall we select one?’

He looked up at me, partly surprised and noticeably moved.  
‘Oh… are you sure, Reg? I mean, I’d be over the moon to get two of them, but…’  
I swallowed my diffidence down. ‘I could no more bear to part you from your new friend than I could part the Red Sea.’  
‘Reg… you are a _marvel._ Well… since I chose this one, why don’t you choose the second for yourself?’

I left the two of them to seek out our next adoptee. Here I rallied my sound judge of character. Puccini appeared to be bubbly and perhaps a little capricious, so I reckoned that a cat with a steady, serene temperament would prove to be the best influence for her.

I passed the rows of prospective pets, paying careful attention to demeanour and body language. The friendlier, more extroverted cats I discounted right away - they would no doubt prove to exacerbate Puccini’s friskiness. I instead paid attention to the cats who remained calm and still. Some were simply grumpy, and they would not do. Nor did I consider the animals who were sluggish and entirely unresponsive - that could possibly be a sign of poor health.  
And then, I saw him.

Perched atop a tiered scratching post, this long lean beast was the very picture of feline elegance. He was pure white, with a long tail that was swishing about slowly and gracefully. His face was not soft and round but aquiline, almost lionesque. His eyes were closed in contemplation. The long neck was tilted slightly to the side - all the better to show off his wonderful profile. Had I not known better, I would have deemed him a fine marble sculpture.  
‘That’s Vasily. Handsome, isn’t he? Would you like to say hello?’

Ms Bassett let me into the enclosure, and I carefully approached him. ‘Good day, Mr Vasily.’  
At this he opened his eyes, and I was astounded to discover they were a similar hue to Bertram’s: brilliant, summer sky blue. He meowed at me, a low, husky drawl.  
‘Vasily is a nice chap, very calm. I think he’s the least anxious cat I’ve ever seen,’ said Ms Bassett.

I held up a hand to him, which he gently headbutted. His coat was like silk. He purred at my attention, deeper and more resonant than Puccini’s delicate timbre.  
I could well picture myself lounging about with a good book and a glass of wine, with this exquisite animal draped upon me. He had a look of such serenity and intelligence, the exemplar of his species.

While I was not eager for his white fur to meet my dark apparel, I spent some time with Vasily, basking in his natural tranquility. Ms Bassett suggested introducing Puccini to him.  
The smaller cat eagerly jumped up to join him on the scratching post platform, making a very forward introduction in licking the fur on his back. He responded to this by drooping in ecstasy.  
‘They are both desexed, are they not?’  
Ms Bassett nodded, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Well, Reg, I think we’ve found ourselves a fur-baby family, what?’

***

We brought our new pets home with a cosy sort of excitement. The first task was, of course, to allow the cats free reign to explore the flat, and get comfortable with their new home. I had made Bertram set up the litter tray that morning, to prevent any accidents.

They padded cautiously about, sniffing at the furniture and seeming to conduct a little conversation of their own:  
‘Meow.’  
‘Mrowr?’  
‘Miiiaow.’  
 _‘Prrrt!’_

Bertram sat upon the sofa, encouraging them to join him. Puccini quickly snuggled into his lap.  
‘Awfully nice spot to watch telly here, Poochy. Or possibly listen to a good recording of “Madame Butterfly!”’

It was at this juncture that a magnificent crash sounded from the kitchen.  
I rushed in to find my elegant Vasily clambering about on the workbench, knocking down the tea things with his long swishing tail.  
‘Mr Vasily!’  
‘Miaow?’  
‘Get down from there at once!’

He blinked at me with serene, uncomprehending blue eyes.  
I shooed him off the counter, and he leapt to the floor, spilling a jar of tea leaves in his descent. As he scooted out of the kitchen, he bumped into the rubbish bin.

Once I had cleaned up the mess, I found the culprit sitting next to Bertram on the sofa. Puccini was still curled up on his lap, her tail swishing as she dozed. It was inadvertently smacking Vasily in the face. Each time he was hit, he recoiled with surprise. But not once did he think to get out of the way. It was almost comical to watch this cycle of stupid endurance.

‘That was Vasily making a racket in there?’ Bertram asked.  
‘I regret it was.’  
‘Hm.’ He examined the feline, still being helplessly swatted by his new housemate’s tail. ‘You know what, Reg? Not for the first time, I think you’ve fallen in love with a blue-eyed himbo.’

***

Thus far, Vasily has broken three pieces of glassware, one mantlepiece clock, shredded Bertram’s favourite purple long-sleeve tee (no great loss), knocked several books off their shelves, and repeatedly interrupted Bertram and I _in flagrante_. He has also accepted his place as the second banana, as Puccini has asserted herself as pack leader without room for argument. Last night, he spilled my cup of tea across the dining table, almost ruining my laptop.

And yet, every time I look into his blue eyes, completely helpless as to the chaos that he leaves in his wake, I pang for the sweet, silly creature. He has very quickly claimed a place in my heart. Upon cleaning up his messes, he is all too eager to snuggle with me as I peruse Spinoza or Wilde, and his purrs are deep and soothing. Without malice, without coldness, and without any bloody common sense. My Vasily is a welcome addition to our little family, and with him I am a less guarded, more loving man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Vasily and Puccini are inspired by my brother’s cats (I being the owner of a darling doggie). Vasily crossed the rainbow bridge in 2018, but he has a happy forever home with Jeeves and Bertie. I can attest that the real Vasily was just as much of a clumsy, heedless dumbass, while also being singularly beautiful (reminds one of a certain Drone, no?)


	3. Chapter 3

'Who was that Scottish chappie, Reg?'  
'Bertram?'  
'You know, the one who always banged on about schemes and gangs and aglets, or something.'  
It took me a moment to detangle the meaning of my beloved's question.  
'You may be referring to the poet Burns, and the oft-quoted excerpt of his poem "To A Mouse":  
  
 _"The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley,_  
 _an’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, for promis’d joy!"'_  
  
'That's it. Someone ought give him an editorial spot with _The Independent._ '  
'I fear it would be a posthumous one, Bertram.'  
'Oh. Shame, that.'

I suspect that Bertram was musing on the peculiar times that we curently find ourselves in: a land of toilet paper scarcity, face masks, and widespread uncertainty. He had just come home from a foraging trip through the local supermarkets. Though he looked somewhat the worse for wear, had scored a few bags of root vegetables, some bulk wet wipes, and a good four kilograms of cat litter. His Code of the Woosters had driven him to volunteer for the onerous task. I quickly moved to prepare a pot of his favoured Darjeeling.

My own onerous task for the day had been an earlier phone call to my mother, informing her that the intricate and expensive planning that we'd gone through for my wedding to Bertram would, for now, amount to naught. The immediate future was a grey fog, and no-one could say for sure when it would be safe to re-schedule the ceremony.  
  
'Was Rani alright when you phoned?' Bertram asked, casting an errant shred of packing foam from his hair, before scrubbing his hands raw under the kitchen tap.  
'She bore up. She wishes to give the catering company a very stern phone call for their refusal to refund our deposit. But as she is currently so busy at the medical centre, I doubt she will find the time or energy.'  
'I imagine the old girl has her hands full with panicking tabloid readers, eh?'  
'Quite so, Bertram. She told me that more of her time has been spent counselling healthy young people with the sniffles, than administering to her truly vulnerable patients.'  
'Blackguards. May they all run out of loo roll!'  
'Indeed.'  
  
We then passed a more sedate afternoon over our laptops. Bertram meticulously tended to his famous blog, while I prepared some documents for a fastidious client, keen to protect her assets against the variable economic climate. The cats, who were quite pleased with our increased presence in the flat, snoozed together on the tabletop between us.  
As I rose for a second cup of tea, I considered their purring, languid forms. Not for the first time, I urged myself to maintain my my _sangfroid._ It was in unsettled times like this that my reputedly cool demeanour was truly put to the test. While I would not confess to being a total control freak, I do appreciate order and consistency a great deal. It is the environment in which I best flourish, and I confess that the mounting chaos around us had been persistenly pricking at my nerves.

As I poured the remaining tea, I recieved a phone call from an unkown number.  
'Hello, this is Reginald Jeeves.'  
'Good afternoon, Mr Jeeves, I'm calling from Bethnal Green Medical Centre. I understand that you are a co-worker of a Mrs Beatrice Akinyemi?'  
'Yes, she is a paralegal at my firm.' I felt my insides begin to clench.  
'Have you been in contact with Mrs Akinyemi within the last fourteen days, sir?'  
'I saw her at the office just a few days ago.'  
'I am obliged to inform you that she has recently tested positive for COVID-19. Given your recent contact, you and your household will be obliged to self isolate for a minimum of fourteen days, and monitor the onset of any symptoms. Have you or any of your houshold members experienced a high fever or persistent coughing?'  
  
My words stuck in my throat, and my heartbeat accelerated.  
'Sir?'  
'Is Bea alright?'  
'She last reported some mild flu-like symptoms, but she is not currently in a critical condition. As she is not in a high-risk category, her prospects of a full recovery are good. Can you please confirm if you or any of your household have been experiencing related symptoms?'  
'...No.'  
'Are any of your household members over the age of sixty, or do they have a pre-existing autoimmune condition?'  
'Paul... he's not in my household, he is my co-worker. He and his husband are-'  
'We will be contacting Mr Seppings, to advise him of this development.'  
'Thank you.'  
'Shold you develop any symptoms, your household will need to remain in self-isolation for a further fourteen days. Please refer to the NHS website to keep up to date with any developments. And do try not to worry too much. These are necessary precautions, which are in place to minimise the spread of the virus. You and your colleagues will likely be fine, long-term.'  
I nodded tightly, unable to find further words.  
After an uneasy pause, 'Have yourself a good day, Mr Jeeves.' The line went dead.

The last I had seen of Bea had been last Friday, shuffling listlessly out of the office doors, laden down with a loot of groceries. She had two loud, hungry teenage sons at home.  
I thought of Paul and Anatole. Both were ex-smokers, their lungs still in the process of repairing decades of damage. I thought of my mother, swamped with desperate patients, a face mask clamped over her mouth.

I was suddenly unable to get enough air into my own lungs. My throbbing hearbeat seemed to overtake everything, pounding in my throat and my ears. I gripped at the kitchen counter with trembling clawed fingers. What was worst was the blank terror in my mind, my inability to think my way out of the paralysis. This godawful panic had saturated its way through my whole body.

The kitchen door opened behind me, Bertram bearing his own empty teacup.  
'Reg...?' His voice was delicate.  
I tried not to sob as I felt tears escape my eyes.

After a few moments, his slow, slippered footsteps approached, and he softly draped his slender form upon my back. His arms slipped around my waist, and he rested his head on my shoulder. With my sharp, jagged inhales, his curls began to tickle my face.  
I could feel his own breaths, deep, even, tender. His body was a reassuring weight, and his hands began stroking up and down my arms.

_'Come with me  
And you'll be  
In a world of pure imagination  
Take a look and you'll see  
Into your imagination...'_

_We'll begin  
With a spin  
Travelling in the world of my creation  
What we'll see will defy explanation...'_

As he sang, my heartbeat gradually slowed, falling in time with the unhurried tempo he had set. The tear tracks dried on my face.  
I found my words once more. 'Willy Wonka, Bertram?'  
'Well... you look like you could use some chocolate.'

He sat me down, and presented me with a family block of Cadbury's along with my refreshed tea.  
'That was Bea's GP. She has tested positive, so we must isolate for the next two weeks.'  
'Ah, well.' He broke off a large piece and popped it in his mouth. 'It was bound to happen to one of us, sooner or later. Knowing Bea, her immune system's already got the dratted thing running scared. Have you called her?'  
Tightness constricted my throat again, and Bertram was surprisingly astute. He rested his hand on mine. 'She'll be alright, I promise you. So will the others. Anatole's arsenal of garlic-heavy dishes will will be a formidable first defence, for one thing.'

I exhaled heavily. '...I haven't had such an episode of panic since secondary school.' I felt a layer of shame now pressing upon my ravaged core.  
Bertram tsked. 'Oh, I got panic attacks all the time at Eton. Must have been all the stress from constantly dodging my house master's fury. It always helped to cocoon myself in bed. I hope that the spindly Wooster corpus provided a passable impromptu shock blanket for you!'  
He laughed lightly, then his gaze settled on mine. I was pulled into a lengthy embrace. He spoke no more, instead imparting all that I needed through his sweet, balmy presence.

***

'You wouldn't believe what a help my Simon has been,' Bea told me, her congested voice even more distorted through the phone. 'Made a pea and ham soup last night that was actually edible. He even found a carton of my favourite ice-cream at the back of the Tesco freezer!'  
'So your appetite is still sound?' I questioned.  
'Yeah, just have to deal with this bloody cough. Otherwise, staying in my PJs and binge-watching telly all day has been quite the holiday. The doc told me I'll likely recover just fine.'  
'I am relieved to hear it.'  
'You just make sure you're looking after _yourself_ , Reg.' Her tone had turned stern and auntly. 'Though I'm sure that that Bertram of yours is nursing you well proper. Do as he says, alright?'  
'I will be sure to.'  
'I'm gonna start on season 3 of "The Crown", now. I promise I'll keep spoilers to myself. Talk soon, love.'  
'Take care, Bea.'

I hung up, turning my attention to Vasily, warm and pliant in my lap. I scratched his ears and he purred deeply.  
'Dinner will be ready in about five, Reg,' Bertram announced from the kitchen. 'Is beans on spelt toast with sauted red onions alright?'  
I chuckled to myself. 'That will be superlative, my shaman.'


End file.
